Into My Arms (28 page)

She turned to the wardrobe, festooned with posters of surfers and rock bands where once there had been gymnastics certificates and pictures of ponies. Bathers, she thought. She’d get Kirra some bathers—she was always in the pool or at training. But what size was she now? To find out, Mary pulled open Kirra’s drawers until she came across the right one, a pile of swimming costumes tangled with goggles and caps. As she reached for a purple pair, her fingers brushed against a bundle of paper. Without thinking, Mary pushed aside the bathers to see what it was. Letters, it looked like, tied together with a green hair ribbon. She recognised the ribbon as one Kirra had worn to school when she was in grade three; it had bounced in her curls as she swung on the gate each night waiting for Ben to come home.

Ben. The letters were from Ben. Mary knew the handwriting on the envelopes even before she opened the top one and yanked out its contents. His sweet slanted script spilled down the pages she held in her trembling hand; he asked after Mary and signed off
All my love
. Her eyes flicked to the top right-hand corner of the first sheet. The letter was dated two weeks ago.
Sorry to hear you haven’t been able to get onto email at school
, it began
. You should have kept up that IT class!
She pawed her way back through the pile. Seven fat missives, the first dating from January 2011, less than a month after he had driven to Tatong to confront her. Mary’s mind raced. Letters, and emails too? All this time Kirra had been in contact with Ben, and she’d never once said a word.

Spud jumped off the bed and ran from the room as quickly as his stubby legs could carry him, his tail beating frantically with joy. ‘Hello, boy,’ Mary heard Kirra greet him. ‘Where have you been?’

Mary tried to push the letters back into their paper shrouds, but her fingers felt glued together, clumsy with shock.

‘Mum?’ Kirra was standing in the doorway, schoolbag still over one shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’

Mary turned her back towards Kirra, quickly shoving the letters into the drawer and tucking the purple bathers around them. ‘You’re home early,’ she said, trying to sound unconcerned.

‘No, I’m not,’ said Kirra, stepping towards her. ‘It’s just that I don’t have training tonight.’

Mary eased the drawer shut, but it was too late.

‘Mum, what are you doing?’ Kirra asked again, more urgently this time. She pushed past Mary and yanked the drawer open, then turned on her furiously. ‘You’ve been snooping! I can’t believe it. You’re never interested, you never ask me how I am, but then when I’m at school you come into my room and go through my things.’

‘I wasn’t!’ Mary said, stung. ‘I came in to see what size bathers you wore, so I could get you some for Christmas.’

‘You should already
know
!’ Kirra screamed. Behind her, Spud’s tail stopped wagging. ‘I’m your daughter, aren’t I? Remember that? And if you did, you’d also know that I don’t
need
any more bathers. Dad got me some a few weeks ago.’ She stormed towards Mary, eyes wet. ‘But you don’t know, do you? Or you don’t care. You just sit on that couch, staring into space. Dad and I might as well be invisible for all the notice you take of us.’

‘And if
you
cared you would have told me that you’d heard from Ben!’ Mary’s voice was shaking, her heart a bird in her throat. ‘Years I’ve worried about him, you know I have. Years! I wasn’t even sure if he was alive.’

‘Oh, he’s alive,’ Kirra said, her tone hard and hateful. ‘I’ve seen him twice, in Melbourne.’ She paused to enjoy the shock on Mary’s face. ‘You didn’t know that either, did you? And I didn’t tell you, because he made me promise not to. Why should I lie to him? You’ve already done enough of that.’

Mary raised her hand and slapped Kirra across the face. The sound crackled in the hot air, sent Spud diving under the bed. Kirra put her fingers to her cheek, her mouth an O of surprise. When she spoke her words were so quiet that Mary had to strain to hear them.

‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose him, don’t you see that? Especially seeing as I’d already lost you.’ She snatched up the purple bathers from the drawer and ran from the room. Mary heard her sobs fading as Kirra slammed the front door behind her.

There was no point going after her, she told herself. Kirra was angry; she needed time to calm down, but she’d be back. She was still only fifteen, after all. Where was she going to go? Yet as the shadows lengthened across the paddocks and the cows moved from under the tree to drink at the dam she grew worried. Should she tell Frank? But he was working and she didn’t want to bother him; didn’t, if she was honest, want him to know what had happened. Her palm throbbed. She’d never so much as spanked Kirra before. And how could she blame the girl, if Ben had made her promise? She’d have given her word too. She would promise anything to have things back the way they’d been.

An hour later Mary could bear it no longer. She’d checked all around the property, even in Kirra’s old cubby; she’d rung one of her daughter’s school friends to ask if Kirra was there. She wasn’t, and the conversation had been awkward, strained, Gabrielle’s disapproving silence hanging heavy on the line. At five o’clock Mary snatched up the car keys. She hadn’t driven for almost a year; it was possible her licence had lapsed, but that didn’t matter—all that mattered was finding Kirra and apologising to her, bringing her home.

She was out of the driveway and onto the road to Benalla before she even realised that she knew where she was heading. It was a long way to cycle, but Kirra was fit. She’d done it before. When she got there Mary parked the car and hurried through the entrance, ignoring the woman behind the desk who called out to her that she had to pay. For a second Mary thought the pool was empty and her breath caught, but then Kirra emerged from a tumble turn, her brown arms slicing through the water. Mary sat down in the stands, watching as her daughter stroked through a length, turned, and began another. She would wait until Kirra was finished. She would wait all night if she had to.

31

From a distance, the Christmas decorations on the museum looked like some sort of tropical fungus, thought Arran. A tinsel-based mould, maybe, originating from the festive excesses of Federation Square, spreading its tendrils all over the city, entombing buildings, clogging tramlines . . . The idea made him smile. Lots of things did these days. He checked his watch. One thirty. He’d made good time from the office, but then the roads were always quiet on Christmas Eve, most people having knocked off at midday and rushed away for some last-minute shopping or an early drink.

A shout went up from the lawn at the far end of the building. Arran peered across the gardens flanking the museum, through the trees green as traffic lights. Yes, that was Ben’s group. He could see Ben himself, standing beside a rubbish bin that was substituting for stumps, umpiring an impromptu cricket game. The enormous multicoloured cube of the Children’s Gallery hovered behind him, framing the scene, its vivid panels as enticing as an advent calendar or a freshly wrapped present.

That reminded him . . . Arran reached into his pocket. The package was still there. He’d have to give it to Zia privately, away from the group, so it didn’t look like favouritism. He
didn’t
favour Zia, he told himself, it was just that Zia had less than the other boys he’d since introduced to the drop-in centre. He was looking forward to seeing all of them, to hearing how they were and their plans for the summer, but it was Zia he had met first, Zia who had needed the most from him, Zia whom he still thought of frequently, wondering how he was doing.

Ben spotted him approaching and left the game, an arm raised in welcome. Arran jogged the last twenty metres and pulled him into a bear hug.

‘Whoa!’ said Ben, fighting his way out. ‘Good to see you too. Thanks for coming.’

‘Sorry I wasn’t here to cook the sausages,’ said Arran.

‘There’s still some burnt ones left, I think, but you better be quick. Plenty of salad though.’

‘Funny, that,’ said Arran, smiling. ‘I don’t know why you bother providing salad for a group of teenage boys. Meat, bread and Coke—that’s all they want.’

‘I live in hope,’ said Ben as they walked back to the game. Arran studied him covertly. It was getting on for two years since they’d been to Syria together, and they’d caught up every few months since then, but the closeness he’d felt to Ben on that trip had never really been repeated. Had it even been real, Arran wondered, or was it simply brought on by their circumstances, by sharing a common mission, working together in a foreign land? Yet it had seemed genuine, had felt true, somehow. A month or so after they’d got back, Nell had even talked about getting Ben involved with their family again—Ben’s family too, Arran reminded himself—but as far as Arran knew nothing had come of it. Ben was friendly enough, but there was a distance to him, a sadness. Arran had never seen him laugh again like he had that day in the courtyard of the Grand Mosque.

‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ he asked casually.

Ben shrugged. ‘Nothing much. Getting organised for the camps. They start early January.’

‘Cheat! CHEAT!’ A cry went up from the cricket game, twelve aggrieved faces turning towards Ben. ‘Sanjeev’s
out
,’ insisted one of them. ‘He says he’s not, but he
is
.’

‘Are you out?’ Ben asked Sanjeev, who was standing nonchalantly in front of the rubbish-bin stumps, preparing to bat again.

‘No way,’ he replied. ‘They missed by a mile.’

‘Did not!’ cried a boy in slips, sweat-streaked and angry. ‘We got you fair and square.’

Ben held up his hands. ‘San, you’ve been in for a while now—how about someone else has a go? You can bowl,’ he added to pacify the boy. ‘Now, who hasn’t had a shot?’ he asked, looking around. ‘Zia, what about you?’

Zia stood up from the grass on the sidelines of the pitch, haphazardly defined by jumpers and drink bottles waving shyly when he spotted Arran. He seemed to have grown at least half a foot since Arran had last seen him, and his upper lip was smudged as if someone had doodled on it in charcoal. How long had it been? Arran wondered. September, maybe, August at the most. He almost didn’t recognise him.

Zia took the place of the reluctant Sanjeev and watched as the ball was bowled, eyes fierce with concentration. As it came towards him he lifted his bat over his shoulders, nearly knocking over the rubbish bin, then swung at it wildly, arms outstretched.

‘Zia!’ Ben called out, laughing. ‘It’s cricket, not baseball.’

The ball hit the bin with a thump and Zia put down the bat and smiled.

‘Do you want to have another go?’ asked Ben.

Zia shook his head. ‘Let Farid. He’s been waiting for ages. I’d rather talk to Arran.’ He ambled over as his younger brother hurried to replace him.

Arran held out his hand. ‘Good to see you,’ he said. ‘Great that Farid’s here too. How long’s he been coming?’

‘Just this term,’ Zia said. ‘He likes it. He makes Ben bowl to him on the basketball court whenever he can.’

Arran chuckled. ‘And Ben would, too. Farid’s always been nuts about cricket, hasn’t he?’ They watched as the boy struck a delivery smartly, sending the ball skipping along the grass towards the Children’s Gallery.

‘Four!’ Ben yelled.

‘He has,’ Zia said, settling himself back on the ground. Arran sat down beside him. ‘I’m getting better at the Aussie Rules though. I’m going to try for the school team next year.’

‘That’s great,’ Arran said warmly. ‘You’ll really be one of us then, won’t you?’ He reached into his pocket. ‘Hey, I brought you something for Christmas. I didn’t know Farid was here, or I would have got him a present too.’

Zia opened the small parcel quickly, then turned the gift over in his hands. ‘It’s a phone,’ he said. ‘Thank you, but I can’t—’

‘It’s prepaid,’ Arran interrupted. ‘I know you can’t afford it—that’s why I got it. All the other kids seem to have one, and now your English is so much better . . . It’s so you can ring your friends without your father complaining, or call your mother occasionally, instead of having to wait for her to call you. I can help you put the numbers in it, if you like. There’s twenty dollars’ credit a month, right through until next Christmas. It’s not much, but . . .’

‘Thank you, Arran.’ Zia dipped his upper body briefly in gratitude. ‘Could I call Habib?’

The question surprised Arran. Why hadn’t he thought of that? ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘It would use up all your credit. But he could call you, maybe, if he had access to a phone.’ Arran titled his head back and gazed up at the blue sky, with a few white clouds drifting across. Somewhere in Syria, Habib must be spending his days under a similar sky. ‘I wanted to ask you about Habib,’ he went on. ‘Is there any news? Have you heard from him lately?’

‘A few letters, when he can. I don’t think he can ring. Maybe he doesn’t know the number.’ Zia fiddled with a shoelace. ‘It’s a long process, isn’t it? Like the application for the visa. Everyone keeps telling us to be patient. Mainly people who don’t have to wait for anything.’

‘And Iman?’

Zia’s face clouded. ‘Nothing. Not since he and Habib separated in Turkey, but that’s years and years ago.’ He was silent for a moment, then looked up. ‘My father has a good job now though. A better job,’ he amended. ‘He is in an office, not the supermarket. He says people are nicer to work with than boxes.’

Arran smiled. ‘That’s great news! So he’s home in the evenings? You must be pleased about that.’

‘I am, yes.’ Zia nodded allowing himself a small smile. ‘Farid is too. We didn’t like being alone overnight. I had to call you once, do you remember?’

‘I do. That was a tough time for you. And what about your mum?’ He shouldn’t be doing this at a picnic, Arran realised. He should have called on the Vasseghis, made a proper appointment, not ambushed Zia when he was meant to be having fun. He might as well have brought a clipboard with him.

‘She is better.’ Zia was plucking at his shoes again. ‘A little. She gets up now most days. She talks to us when we visit. She looks at Farid’s pictures.’

‘She’s not back at home though?’ May as well finish what he’d started.